


Choices

by saisei



Series: Original Lifeline [3]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Abortion, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Birth Control Failure, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-04
Updated: 2018-09-04
Packaged: 2019-07-06 20:27:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15893520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saisei/pseuds/saisei
Summary: Ignis' teenaged body betrays him.





	Choices

Ignis is intelligent – more than that, he's clever enough to know when it behooves him to be pragmatic. Once he's aware that having sex is now one his duties, he resolves to leave the king with no room for complaint. He dislikes how much he's been forced to operate in the dark, and heads for the library, where he surreptitiously finds books that go on about orgasm and the glories of having sex during oestrus, neither of which, apparently, he'll experience for as long as he's on birth control. Which he suspects could be for another ten to twenty years (he hopes for Noct's sake that Regis lives to see him grow into a man, but he's irked by the idea of having only book-knowledge of his own biology for more than half his life). Several books get shoved aside in annoyance because the authors assume the sexual union is precipitated by love and the blissful thrill of mutual exploration.

He just needs to know enough to get the job done; bringing emotions into the equation would make everything unnecessarily complicated.

Complications scare him. By the time he's one year away from entering the Crownsguard, he's deep in the hell of puberty. Constant training makes it easier to adjust to his new height and the broadening of his frame, but he can't mitigate the sudden horrific dawning of attraction. For the first time, he _wants_ to have sex, nearly constantly, and his imagination is fueled by experience. He thinks about how cold Clarus' eyes would be if he went down on him – right here, right now, in the corridor outside the great hall – and how Gladio would be able to manage every position in the books and then some. He looks at everyone's cocks in the showers – he tries not to, but he can't help himself – and that night in bed he fantasizes about being shoved up against the wall and taken by everyone in turn, over and over, until he's crying and begging them to stop, and they don't stop, and he reaches down to pull on his own fever-hot erection, panting and frantic and finally – _finally_ – spilling seed over his fingers.

He worries he's becoming addicted to the high and release of orgasm, finding it hard to concentrate on his studies without his mind and his hand straying. He puts his knowledge to work, mastering the art of self-pleasure and curating his mental library of actors and scenarios.

He never thinks of Regis when he masturbates, and he tells himself it's because he knows his place. But that doesn't explain why he still feels like a scared child when he disrobes in the royal chambers, even though he can perform the sex acts with smooth professionalism. Afterward, the king tutors him in court and diplomatic matters, for which guidance Ignis is grateful: the world outside is unraveling, and he must prepare Noct to weather that chaos. He wishes to be worthy of the trust Regis has in him, and selfishly, he's honored that he was chosen.

He tells himself he wouldn't necessarily be happier had he been given a choice. All around him, classmates and friends are dating, and breaking up, and being rejected. He is spared that. He can't imagine approaching any of the people he jerks off to and asking them for sex or a relationship – imagine the humiliation and pain if they refused, after he'd built them up as such passionate lovers in his head.

Over the winter solstice holiday, he's wracked by nausea, triggered by even the smell of food. He tells his uncle it's flu and retreats to his room and his bed for a week. But he knows very well what the likely cause is, and travels across town to a pharmacy he's never visited. He does both pregnancy tests in the train station restroom, one after the other, hoping desperately the second time for a better result.

He has not ever requested a private audience with the king, and he burns with shame at the need for it now. Regis cuts him off as he's stumbling through his apologies, saying he understands and will have it taken care of. Ignis is relieved, but then one week and another slips by, weeks when every time he's riding Regis' cock he's irrationally afraid his condition will have become visible, his stomach bulging out and shattering his plans, his dreams, his future. He's terrified Regis will decide that he'd rather have a bastard than a prince's advisor, and he'll be sent away.

He thinks his faith is being tested; he refuses to break, no matter how much it feels like a torment.

At the end of the month, he's given a letter at lunchtime instructing him to visit the doctor's after school. He hastily entrusts Noct's care to Gladio, and is perversely glad when he's violently ill twice that afternoon. He'd superstitiously dreaded the end of morning sickness, knowing how far along that would mean he was.

At the doctor's office, he's taken into a back room where he has to remove his pants and get on the exam bed, legs in stirrups while the doctor shoves cold lubed instruments up inside him. _This will pinch_ , he's told, and then there's a sharp pain and everything's pulled back out again.

"Wait here two, three hours," the doctor says, stripping off his gloves. "I'll be back."

As soon as the door shuts, Ignis puts his trousers back on. He sends his uncle a text saying he's gone to the library and takes out his homework. The room is cool and quiet, and he gets quite a lot done, if mostly because he's trying not to think about the intensifying cramps, amongst other things. For example, how well he can trust a doctor who so readily put him on birth control when he was too young; there isn't even data in the the medical literature on his implant for his _current_ age. All he's found is one study claiming the hormones improve acne (he begs to differ).

So he supposes it's hardly surprising that the implant failed when pitted against puberty. Or perhaps it was a dosage problem. Or just sheer bad luck.

When the doctor returns, Ignis gets back up on the table, pantsless, and tucks his legs into the stirrups. He makes himself relax for the instruments and several unpleasant shots (one of them internal), but he's still taken aback by the shocking painfulness of the procedure. He's read first-hand accounts to prepare himself, but none of them described the way everything whites out around a core of eviscerating agony, or how he can't catch his breath. But then it's done, and he's hurried to dress and leave, even though he's shaking like a tree in a storm.

On the subway ride home, he decides he definitely doesn't trust the doctor, but the decision's accompanied by weary recognition of the fact that he will of course go again, when ordered to. He's too willful, he thinks, resting his head against the cool glass of a window; if he weren't so stubborn, not having a choice wouldn't chafe like this.

But he's supposed to be strong, and brave, and loyal, as well. When he's not so weary, he'll figure out how to reconcile the conflicting expectations laid upon him.

Arriving at home, he finds his uncle waiting up for him in the kitchen. He pours Ignis a glass of cool water, a sign that he wants to talk something over. Ignis sits at the table automatically and is blindsided by a stab of pain. He'd forgotten (how had he forgotten?), and the reminder is so sharply vindictive that he's crying before he can hold the tears back.

He _knows_ it's just the pain and the terrible day and a sickening, shameful relief, but when his uncle hugs him he presses his face into his stomach and lets everything go, as if in mourning.

"He doesn't care about me," he says, over and over, inconsolable, like it's true, and his uncle strokes his shoulders and says, "I know it hurts, I'm so sorry. It'll get better, I promise it gets better."

When the tears run dry, Ignis doesn't move away from the warmth of his uncle's arms. He remembers being hugged like this when he first came to live here, before he met Noct.

"We should start cooking again," his uncle says into the raw silence. "I let you alone too much after Tam passed. We Scientias should stick together."

"Okay," Ignis agrees, too wrung out to refuse anyone anything. "Maybe tomorrow. I'm not hungry now."

His uncle's hand doesn't falter, passing back and forth, steady and warm. "All right, then." And again after a moment, when Ignis is caught in the liminal space between waking and sleep, like a blessing, "All right."

**Author's Note:**

> (A/N: Ignis' doctor is unethical, uncaring, and performing an illegal abortion; the procedure IRL should not in any way be as depicted in this fic.)


End file.
